Free Blackjack Villain by Ben Bequer Page A

if Atmosphero would have caught me with my gear, so the first thing I did after taking a shower was to get in full Blackjack gear.
    I usually wore a black t-shirt with a nylon web duty belt that had three pouches filled with gadgets where a pistol would normally hang under my left armpit. I also had a heavy harness that covered my lower arms from my elbows to my hands, lined with Kevlar strips and large elbow pads, and thick fingerless gloves so I could handle the arrows easier.
    Atop that, I wore a long black cape and cowl, like most of the other items, self-designed and built. The cowl, combined with a neoprene half-mask, concealed my face.
    My lower half consisted of dark gray combat pants, and a pouch laden nylon web belt. Hanging from my right hip was the arrow quiver (I shoot lefty), and inside were my masterwork arrows, each more sinister than the next. I had hand-made arrow shafts and special heads with all kinds of different payloads.
    Strapped to each of my thighs was a holster, but instead of pistols, I stuffed them with more gadgets in an easy to reach spot. On my knees are two heavy neoprene pads of my own design with an external hard-shell of flexible Kevlar, with two more side pouches on the outside of the knee for more stuff.
    My imagination when it came to my gadgets was boundless, including a holo-decoy, mini-tank, localized EMP emitter, smoke and explosive packages of various sizes, and about anything I’d ever think of needing.
    Finishing off the package were the boots, my own design since you don’t usually find a size 20s on the rack at a department store. I had made them by hand, lining the black waterproof leather with steel and Kevlar plates so they were heavier and sturdier than they needed to be. I had also built in several secret compartments for more stuff, and a short-burst rocket pack into the heel for a quick escape. They were massive and heavy, and I loved them.
    I stood in front of my small shaving mirror and gave myself a look. Already the tension and anger were fading. The fear of being caught and the anxiety of another failure around the corner replaced with the calm confidence that nothing could stop me in this garb, and nothing would. I had an overwhelming feeling that a bright future was ahead of me if I gave it a chance, if I left the “Dale” persona behind.
    If I became Blackjack.
    Then dug into my haversack, pulled out one of my throwaway phones and dialed Sandy.
    “Hey Dale, what’s kicking?” he answered with his usual greeting.
    “Call me Blackjack,” I said.
    Sandy laughed. “I like that, man. All assertive.”
    I went right into it, “Sandy, enough fucking around. I want in.”
    Sandy paused and I could hear his breathing on the other line while he mulled it over.
    He laughed, “I don’t know, this gig is hardcore.”
    “I want it.”
    “Yeah, I can see that. Well, it’s funny because they were asking me about you. They like you a lot, I don’t know if it’s a good time for you.”
    “Sandy, I want it,” I repeated.
    “Okay, okay,” he said defensively. “I guess it’s meant to be. You know where Barbarella’s is?”
    I thought a second. “I’m sure I can find it.”
    “Go ready,” Sandy said, code for coming with all my gear. “Stand across the street, in the parking lot next to the liquor store. A car will pick you up.”
    I looked at my watch and checked the distance online. It was over six miles away but at this hour traffic was murder. It would take me an hour or more by taxi, and only about twenty-five minutes if I ran it.
    “I can be there in thirty.”
    “Alright, get going” Sandy said and hung up.
    * * *
    That run gave me some time to think.
    I went back and forth over and over whether to be exhilarated at the opportunity, or dreadful at the possibilities. Could Sandy be making a deal? Could he be turning me in? He was into a lot of dirty business, so he could be dealing me to the authorities. A super with a criminal record would go far